


Shepard's Music

by Strain_of_the_Stress



Series: John Shepard [2]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:57:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3960112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strain_of_the_Stress/pseuds/Strain_of_the_Stress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into a bit of Shepard's life during the Reaper War, and the friends he takes with him. Takes place before Priority: Citadel III, with the assumption that The Normandy handled a couple other missions between Priority: Rannoch and this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shepard's Music

Shepard’s Music

The cabin door opened with an automatic hiss as the occupant walked in with fatigue little hidden by purpose. John Shepard may have been the savior of the galaxy, may have been the curer of the genophage and the negotiator of the Quarian-Geth peace, he may even have been superhuman after death was cheated him by Cerberus, but he was still human. And exhausted.

His steel-toed boots made it to his desk before his body was given permission to collapse into his chair, his legs automatically spinning him to face his terminal and his hands automatically bringing up his messages. This was the part of the job they were never told about in N-school, never yelled at about in boot-camp. This was neither the pain and glory of the battlefield nor the subterfuge and espionage of the N-7 world of shadows: these were duty rosters.

Sure he had an Operations Officer that could handle this, Lieutenant Commander Shwenger had even proven reliable, even Vakarian – his best friend, favorite Turian, and executive officer (for as much consternation as it caused Alliance Command) – had taken a look at them. But Shepard still insisted on looking over every duty roster, every leave and medical chit, any issue above a crewman’s hang-nail (so long as it wasn’t infected) passed underneath his eyes. The concept of delegation occurred to him: his crew members made the decisions that were represented in the myriad of datapads and files cluttering up his desk and terminal; but he never felt right not seeing what was happening. Every level of training he had ever received, from Boot Camp to OCS to N-school had taught him to take responsibility for his subordinates, and for Commander Shepard that meant knowing every scrap of information he could about the operation of his ship and her crew.

His mind started to wander, everything that he had to worry about still bouncing inside like a swarm of… something, he was too tired to figure out what. He needed focus, needed to pull whatever power is left to the, albeit mundane, task at hand. He reached for a cup of coffee that wasn’t there, the smell usually the first thing to bring his world back into crystal clarity, the bitter taste motivating his mind to run faster. But in its absence he switched through his terminal until he found the sound-system controls, an odd thing for a warship’s stateroom, but then again so was the fish-tank and model display. He selected the “Greatest Techno Hits” playlist on his auto-radio app, hoping the droning electrical whirrs and omnipresent deep beats would keep his mind on track. But as the music started, pulling his thoughts into a techno-fueled bundle, he noticed that the song was a couple years old, something he had heard from before the… He switched to another song, similarly old. All the songs he pulled up were familiar too him, some by groups which had even broken up since. _Data must have been corrupted when we disconnected from the Alliance Command Data Network so quickly. Never heard of that happening, but I don’t see what else would be causing this._

Despite the age of the music, Shepard found himself slowly relaxing into his chair, the tension of the past couple of hours easing minutely as his brain found something familiar, something he was used to. Two years may not have seemed like any stretch of time to Shepard’s conscious brain, but to step into a world even slightly changed without the gradual progression of time was unpredictably jarring. Shepard’s unconscious found familiarity wherever it could, even if through musical hits that weren’t even that good when they came out.

He stared at the terminal for two or three minutes, words lost in the fog of fatigue on their way to his conscious mind despite the added power of the music, eyes glazed over with too many demands and conditions and lost teams and the entire galaxy going to hell, before his cabin door opened again with the same hiss. The locks on The Normandy’s Captain’s Stateroom defaulted to require all to request verbally verified permission except the occupant of the cabin itself; but Shepard’s Infiltrator training had left him no stranger to technology and so he had programmed the lock to allow a select few in. Chackwas, the eternally maternal medical mother figure she was of course had full access – he considered it too much of a risk to require otherwise – Engineer Adams, Tali, and the Turian that now stood in front of him were among the few others who were granted access. Even though she didn’t need it, Admiral Shepard had access as well, along with the man now saving Earth while Shepard whisked among the stars, earning the accolades and admiration that (as far as Shepard was concerned) belonged to Anderson.

 _Damn, what is it now. Please, tell me The Krogan have destroyed a reaper by laughing at it and that the rest of them have exploded into confetti and champagne. Just some good news, for once!_ “Vakarian, what brings you to my illustrious estate?” Shepard asked, as he gestured to his over-sized cabin. “Well, for as much as I adore gazing upon your vast… habitat, I’m actually just here with a couple updates.” Garrus stated plainly as he handed Shepard the datapad he had carried in with him. He took a stance at ease, hands clasped behind the back and feet shoulder width apart as he waited for Shepard to look over the pad. “Garrus, I’ll be straight with you: I’ve been staring at datapads and galaxy maps for the past 18 hours. Just give me the run-down of what’s in here and I’ll look it over in the morning.”

“Alright. There’s not much of incredible importance: our crew-changes are standing-by for when we make The Citadel; Joker puts us at about 26 hours away. Maintenance on the stealth system is going according to plan. I could bore you with details that you can read tomorrow, or I could just tell you that Adam’s estimates are dead on and our engineering team is top notch. Shift just got turned over and I caught the OOD on his way back, so his report is in there as well, figured I’d give it to you all in one go. One last thing: The alliance procurement chains have come through with a few pieces of equipment, so it might be worth looking over what we’re going to be taking on. I’ve already prepared duty rosters that account for the new crew-members and signed the necessary reports and requests from Adams’ Shepard went to protest as Garrus held up a taloned hand to calm him ‘I’ll send them your way, but remember: you did, technically, give me authority to do that. Beat Hackett off for a couple of weeks to do so too, if memory serves. So touching.’ Shepard sat down, slightly deflated and looking all the more exhausted. ‘And I’ve notified Vega and Cortez of the incoming supplies.”

Shepard had remained holding the data pad all through the report, glancing at it occasionally to see what was being referred too. After Garrus finished, he threw it onto the growing pile that sat on his desk, wiping some of the fatigue from his eyes and trying to eliminate any thoughts of sleep. _I’ve got too much to do. A galaxy isn’t saved by hours on the pillow, and you’ve got a couple of stims left. But, maybe, if you just – NO, sleep isn’t an option. Sleep means more deaths, more lead time before this is done. You’ll sleep this universe into harvest with thoughts like that. First step, though: Coffee. Stims are a last resort._ “Sounds great, I’ll take a look at it as soon as possible. Thanks for taking care of those.” Shepard stood up and walked over to the small coffee pot he kept on the auxiliary desk by his bed. As he touched the glowing panel it started to sputter and emit the bitterly awakening smell of coffee into the room. “Is there anything else you need, Vakarian?”

“Yeah, Shepard.” He looked up to stare his madibled friend straight in the visor, the look in his eyes anticipating: he knew what the next demand would be. “You need sleep Shepard. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it now: get some rest. Bradley is OOD for the next 8 hours, he’s a good egg and knows what he’s doing. I’ve got him under orders to contact me if anything goes sideways, and we’re in the middle of deep space – Even a Reaper would be freezing their ass off out here. Things are covered, get some rest.”

Shepard poured himself a cup of coffee from the steaming pot, blowing on it as he let the smell fill his nostrils. Unlike some of his fellow Marines, Shepard preferred his coffee room temperature – not only was it easier to maintain, but he thought it gave it more flavor. It also allowed him to drink two or three glasses at a time to  keep his energy up before he needed the needled jolt of the stim packs; but he had convinced himself it was just because he liked it. “Garrus, no. And that’s final. You’re my friend, but I’m pulling rank here. I’ve got too much to do, too many data pads to look over to allow myself any rest, okay?” The Turian bowed his head in half-hearted concession. “But let me know next time you and Vega hold a Poker night, okay? It’d be nice to… unwind some time.” For how much he tried, Shepard couldn’t hide the grimace at the word ‘unwind’ from his friends’ now piercing glare.

Shepard made his way back up to his desk, putting his hot cup down on one of the few clear spots on the desk and opened his terminal to begin the night’s _– morning’s? Who knows at this point –_ work.  “Alright, I won’t push it. Best of luck with the army of Data pads, Shepard, maybe we’ll just call you ‘Slayer of the Pads’ instead of ‘Savior of the Galaxy’. Not quite as much appeal as ‘Archangel’, but you know: not everybody can be me.” Shepard shot Garrus a tired but still genuine grin as he left the cabin. He turned back to his terminal, picking his coffee up to hold it underneath his nose as he began to read the most recent engineering report. “2145 hours – MM2 Steven’s submits work order on Electrical Bus A. 2152 hours – Engineer Adams assigns EM1 Bruchelli and EM2 Stanton to”

The Doors alarm buzzed.

Perhaps, were he better rested, not feeling the weight of trillions of souls and thousands of planets, Shepard’s reflexes would not have been as combat effective as they could be and he would have remembered that invaders on The Normandy were unlikely. Perhaps he would have placed his coffee down and nothing would have happened. But as it is, upon hearing the sound his hand instinctively reached for the pistol that was no longer strapped to his hip, letting his coffee go in the mean-time; a scalding brown stain began to appear on the inside of his left trouser leg.

 _That’s it. I’ve been pushed to my limit. Watch out ladies and gentlemen, The Great Commander Shepard is about to be rendered mentally unwell by a cup of spilt hot coffee. Savior of the Galaxy right here, folks._ “Get in here!” Shepard yelled, already reaching for a towel that had been left on one part of his ever-messy desk. “I’m sorry, but this had better be important. If it is, I’ll deal with it. If it’s not – I’m not going to get mad but please, for the love of all things good and unharvested, take it to the XO.” Shepard began to wipe at his leg, not looking towards the door. “Bradley, if that’s you, I thought – “

“John?”

The cool, filtered voice wafted across the air like a fresh breeze, stopping Shepard in his tracks. Slowly he picked his head up, straightening in his chair and turning to face the always-welcome intruder.

“Tali? Why didn’t you just come in. Did the door lock you out?”

“No, I just ran into Garrus on the way here, he said you were a little – thin. Mentally, I mean. Figured asking might be nice. Apparently it was a scathing decision.”

“That bastar… Bad puns aside, yeah, I’ve got a lot to do. Turns out rescuing the galaxy takes a lot of work, who knew?” Shepard quipped, tossing the towel aside and massaging the bridge of his nose. “How are things going for you?”

It was a well-known fact aboard The Normandy that the Shepard which the rest of the galaxy saw was a façade – a set of ideals given embodiment by a single man who was much more human than the vids would ever show. All the crew members knew about the dark circles and utter fatigue that sat under and in his eyes, of the slight hitch in his right shoulder that had developed during his fabled Collector Base mission, of the near (or possibly very real, as a few close friends knew) addiction to coffee. They all knew that the Commander Shepard which saved the galaxy was a person which no human could ever live up to be. But they also knew nothing of the John Shepard which sat underneath. Of the man who grew tired and annoyed at times, whose patience was incredible but violent when broken, whose cutting sarcasm was a trait both spited and loved by friends. Few in the Galaxy knew about that man, instead choosing to believe in the steadfast paragon of humanity that stood in front of the reporters and cameras, between them and the greatest force of destruction ever not known, believing him to be real that their salvation may be even believed. But one of the few people who did know about John Shepard, loved him even, was standing in front of him.

Tali waltzed into the cabin with all her typical lithe grace, athletic and elegant to the core. Her shawl was a little off – one of the few ways John had learned to identify a long day – and grime covered both her gloves and forearms, a few smudges having made it to her helmet. She held an impressive stack of datapads in her hand and moved to set those down on the coffee table in front of John’s couch as he stood up to greet her.

“There’s not much to report honestly – faster than light travel is comparably easy. It’s the ship being shot at and put in the path of a race of killer sentient-machines that gets challenging. Ancestors divine what our captain is thinking.” She said, turning with a grin seen only through her eyes to John. He stepped down, a tired smile conquering his face. Taking the clean part of the towel, he lifted it to her visor and lifted the grease off, placing a small kiss to her filter light. “The captain is thinking you’re a sight for sore eyes, sweetheart.” He said, looking through the glass into hers.

“Keelah, John, you look exhausted. When was the last time you slept?”

She followed him as he made his way back up the stairs to his office chair, swiveling to face her but grabbing a datapad all the same.

“That’s not a relevant question, Tali. The better question is, how long can I go before I need to sleep”

Tali cocked her hip to the right side, crossing her arms in front of her. Her filter light began to glow – a feature introduced about 150 years ago by the migrant fleet to give visual cues of speech, and one Tali was exceptionally thankful for – before John used its cue to cut her off. “And the answer is a little while longer. Even if only by necessity.” Tali’s withering look of judgement continued. _Damn, I can hunt down a rogue spectre, destroy a race of genetically mutated ancient techno zombie kidnappers, even face a Reaper down on foot with an over-teched laser pointer. But I still can’t hold under that glare for longer than 3 minutes._ “I want to sleep, don’t get me wrong. But these datapads aren’t going to read themselves. I’ve got too many reports and requests to read, too many things to do to –“

“To do them tired and at your wits end. John, honey, you need to sleep. You may outrank me down there – ‘Tali gestured to the world of ranks and reapers that was being kept at bay beyond the stateroom’s door ‘- but in here we’re equals. And I’m saying: You need to sleep.” Shepard bowed his head in concession, standing up as he switched his terminal off, accepting his fate. _God do I love her_. “Now, you…  lug-head,’ She hesitated slightly on the word, clearly not familiar nor comfortable with its use yet, ‘get undressed and get in bed.” John began getting undressed, throwing his semi-stained trousers into the laundry bin and hanging his service-armor up with practiced military precision.

“Tali, where on earth did you get lughead from?”

“I’ve been reading up on human nicknames. Same place I got honey from. Why, do you not like it? Would you rather I call you bosh’tet again?”

“No, no, lug-head is fine. It’s just a bit outdated. Your use of the word ‘bosh’tet’ is a little… excessive. You’ve got your bosh’tets, Vakarian has his calibrations, and T’soni has her Goddess’. I’m giving it three months before the entire ship drives itself crazy via little catchphrases.”

John lifted the covers on the starboard side of the bed and slid under, the soft sheets welcoming him like a long-lost friend. Tali moved and sat on his side of the bed, watching him snuggle under. It was these moments, as she watched one of the most powerful men in the galaxy, the warrior peacemaker that was her boyfriend wiggle under the sheets like a bubble-confined infant, that she wondered what Ancestors had blessed her to give her such a wonderful mate.

“Not so long as you’re here to lead us, right?”

“Obviously. You’d have calibrated Vakarian’s head right into a bulkhead if I weren’t here.”

“I wouldn’t joke about those things so much… It could happen, you know. I have a shotgun.”

John finally sat still, gazing up at her. It was in these moments, as he felt the newest Quarian Admiral, the one who had helped to reclaim the homeworld and broker a peace with her people’s sworn enemy, the leader engineer that was his girlfriend smooth his hair like a love-sick teenager, that he wondered what gods of old had blessed him to give him such a wonderful girlfriend.

“Will you law down with me?” he asked tentatively, blushing like a teenager caught talking to his first crush.

“Only for a little while – that stealth system isn’t going to oversee its own repairs.” She said as she slipped next to him from the port side.

“Well, that can be arranged. Have you talked to EDI?” John asked as he reached over to his bedside, turning down the cabin stereo system. He still left it on, though – the background noise helped both him and Tali sleep.

“John, that’s like asking Chakwas to perform surgery on herself. Even if EDI could guide the repairs, I want to oversee it. She may be the ship, but I’m one of her lead engineers. Also, what’s with the music?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It always plays songs from 2-3 years ago. All these ‘Greatest Hits’” She read off of the display on her side “Are a couple years outdated. “

John turned on his side, wrapping his arm around Tali’s abdomen and resting his head on her shoulder, one of the soft-spots of her enviro-suit while she played with his hair. He knew Joker would rib him for the next week if he caught The Great Commander Shepard snuggling up to his girlfriend like this, but frankly, he didn’t care. _Hey, sometimes an Alliance N-7 Spectre just wants to cuddle. Nothing wrong with that._

The unusually familiar beats washed over him, soft enough for him to still drift quickly to sleep, fatigue easily overtaking his eyelids; but loud enough to prevent him from coming up with a new issue to fix.

“I’unno… I think it might be sort if uh luttle shck…” he mumbled as he fell easily into a deep sleep.

20 Minutes Later

Joker watched the displays of his Normandy like a mother watching her infant sleep. His shift had technically ended almost an hour ago, but he wasn’t leaving his seat with somebody mucking around in his – _her_ – stealth system. The readings were nominal, no variance in heat conduction, power output, mass effect quotient, or any other system since they increased to light speed. Still 8 hours out from the relay. In a moment of personal indulgence, he switched his right auxiliary display to the video feed nobody but EDI knew about.

Joker would never admit it to anybody, but Shepard was the closest thing to a brother he had. At first he and The Commander had been slightly antagonistic – Shepard bearing down with all the enthused authority of a newly minted Commander, Joker responding with all the indignance of a prideful, hotshot helmsman. But as they grew to know each other, Joker found himself caring more and more for Shepard. Hell, he almost loved the man by the time they caught Saren – _in a strictly platonic way, of course_. But all of that was equal parts solidified and stolen from him when he watched Shepard get blown away by the Collector ship. He realized that the man whom he had thought of as strictly a commander had since become much more than that. He would accompany Shepard to hell and back, and he did: that hell was called the Omega 4 Relay.

Then he got the order from none other than Admiral Anderson, delivered by informal extranet message, of course.

**“Joker –**

**Know you’re still on The Normandy, heard you might even have been the one who stole it. Not much time, know you’ve been with Shepard from the beginning, need you to watch out for him. That man might be our last hope, and this war certainly isn’t going to be easy on him. Keep an eye on him – keep him safe as best as you can.**

**Anderson**

**Admiral, Alliance Navy** ”

Since then Joker had kept as watchful an eye on Shepard as anybody had; still full of his typical quips and cutting humor, but this time as much a method of trying to put Shepard at ease as a defense mechanism. His jokes had always been a way for him to stave off criticism, put off the terror he felt constantly that he’d be taken from his chair by his syndrome. He even snapped at Shepard, hard too, when he had asked about it on the first Normandy. But he also knew that he owed Shepard his life many times over and that, even if Anderson hadn’t asked, he’d protect that man as best as a crippled, egotistically insecure pilot could.

And so Joker watched from the microcamera he had slipped onto one of the leg’s of Shepard’s weird Sovereign model – _Seriously, how does the guy keep that in is room? I mean, I’m all for trophies and stuff like that but, really?_ – as Shepard slept peacefully, curled tightly against Tali as she flicked through reports and schematics on her omni-tool. It was such a different image from what he was used to seeing from The Commander, so peaceful and… small, even, compared to the larger than life war-hero marine N7 spectre he normally portrayed. If it were anybody else, Joker would be ribbing him for it for the next week. _Sometimes, even an Alliance N7 spectre needs to cuddle. Not only that, props to him for not being too masculine to just accept it_.

Something, though, was off.

Joker turned the sound up, slightly, the comm-piece resting in his ear-canal playing bad tecno-hits he recognized from about two years ago…

“Hey EDI?” he asked, trusting the ship to stay together long enough for him to swivel his leathery throne to face his co-pilot. “Yes, Jeff?” Her face was as stoic as ever, but there was something in it that seemed… sheepish. _How can I be saying an AI seems sheepish… that’s just… weird._ “Have you… have you changed anything about the music in Shepard’s stateroom?”

“I would ask that you use discretion with this information, Jeff, but yes: I have overridden his auto-radio station on occasion to play music that was popular from before his death.” Joker shuddered at how coldly she stated it. Her caring was not in question, but still: sometimes she still lacked any tact. “This is one of those occasions.”

“Why? Wouldn’t that, you know, make him all ‘Oh man, I died, this is the music I listened too before I was thrown into the cold vacuum of space’?” _Yeah, and I’m mentally lecturing EDI about tact?_

“I have been monitoring The Commander’s body-response every time, and I have noticed that his blood pressure, core temperature, and respiration rate indicate a reduction in stress. I believe that he is more comfortable with music that he is familiar with. While music has not altered drastically since The Collector Attack, I believe that it has changed sufficiently for The Commander to, if only subconsciously, notice a difference. It could be said that I am… putting him at ease.”

Joker paused, staring at EDI’s stoic face, shocked at the care he had just heard from his AI. He knew she cared in her own special way – the love and friendship of an AI could not be expected to be the same as that of an organic and he knew that better than anyone – but he had never seen her demonstrate that level of consideration before. Usually she was semi-tactless, good intentioned as always but slightly clueless as to the emotional responses of others. But this? This seemed almost human.

“Yeah, well, don’t let him hear about it.’ Joker said almost defensively as he swiveled back to his display, the typical pilot façade taking over his moment of speechlessness ‘I don’t think Shepard could ever admit that he was put ‘at ease’ by a two-year delay in music. I don’t think he could admit to be put at ease by anything. Well… except maybe Tali. But she’s… you know.”

“Yes, Jeff. I believe Shepard’s stereo will remain broken for some time.”

“And EDI?”

“Yes, Jeff?”

“Thanks.” He said sincerely, trying desperately to hide the slight lump that had suddenly, for no reason, and certainly not because his co-pilot was not only a sexy super-smart robot AI but also one of the most genuinely kind and caring individuals he had ever met.

His co-pilot smiled as she turned to face him. She knew Joker to be complex, even mystifying in his responses – he was course when he meant kindness and he was joking when meant caring – but such frankness was unusual for him.

“You are welcome, Jeff.”

**Author's Note:**

> First one, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous. Comments would be highly appreciated.


End file.
